Hemlock And The Dead God's Legacy (Book 2)

by B Throwsnaill

  She picked up the ornament and approached the table. She became excited when she saw that the hole in the table matched the size of the peg on the bottom of the ornament. She mounted the ornament into the table, matching the peg with the hole.

  Nothing happened, although Hemlock immediately noticed that a splinter of moonlight was falling across the edge of the table.

  Of course! The moonlight!

  She dragged the table across the floor until the moonlight struck the glass ornament. She had to rotate the ornament in the hole to line up the mirror, which reflected the moonlight in a tight circle onto the tabletop.

  Hmm.

  She changed the vertical angle of the mirror and the ornament erupted in light. Beams of light shone from each of the four side mirrors. Each beam shone on the walls of the room.

  What is the point of this?

  Hemlock inspected the walls of the circular room. They featured a series of stylized arched recesses, which were inlaid with green marble that contrasted with the smooth granite of the surrounding walls. Above the arches, the domed roof was set off by a carved extrusion which was decorated at four equidistant points by beautifully carved images of fanged gargoyle women.

  Those are pretty creepy. But wait, four sides—four sculptures!

  Hemlock rotated the ornament to align the light beams with the gargoyle women. She adjusted one of the mirrored sides to shine the light directly on one of the carvings. She heard a very gentle click.

  This is it!

  She aligned the remaining two sides, and heard a similar click as each additional beam of moonlight struck a gargoyle carving. When she aligned the final beam, she heard a click, but also the soft sound of stone grating on stone.

  The green marble inside each of the arched recesses was rotating. Three of the arches revealed bare granite behind them, but the fourth revealed a shadowy chamber, which lit mysteriously before Hemlock’s eyes.

  Inside was a small chamber with a desk, a bookshelf, and a trunk.

  Hemlock heard a sound at the door and vaulted behind the bed for cover.

  She heard mechanical sounds moving into the room, but was soon relieved as she recognized the familiar sounds of Merit approaching.

  She rose and confronted him: “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, hello, Miss Hemlock. I was in the atrium when I heard a noise. I know this wing is supposed to be locked, so I decided to investigate.”

  “Merit, it could have been dangerous. You should have gotten help. But, in this case, I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been here.”

  “Have you discovered something?”

  “Yes, I think I have,” said Hemlock, gesturing to the newly revealed alcove.

  She approached it and looked at the desk. Merit walked toward the glass ornament, and seemed to be inspecting the moonlight and the mirrors.

  Hemlock saw some notes on the desk, and another quill and ink bottle. She read part of the document, and it seemed to be related to esoteric spell components. Losing interest, she moved to the trunk.

  She expected it to be locked, but it wasn’t. Looking inside, she saw a few white tunics and some ornate sashes. Moving the clothes aside, she looked deeper into the trunk. She saw a portrait there, near the bottom, as if concealed. It was a family portrait of two adults and an adolescent boy. Hemlock’s was startled as she realized that the adolescent was clearly a young Falignus.

  He looks so young and carefree. Who are these people, and what happened to him?

  She found it difficult to take her eyes from the portrait, but managed to do so when she noticed a time-worn parchment near where the portrait had been. Lifting it, she unfolded it and read it. Finding its contents compelling, she began to mouth it aloud.

  “Dear Falignus,

  I regret the unusual circumstances that surrounded your admission into the Tower. Over time you will come to realize that it was for the best. As you’ve been told, I sired you and placed you with the two nobles who you have referred to up to this point as parents. You were no use to me as a child, and I had important matters to attend to. But now that you have grown, you must train to assume the mantle of leadership of the Wizard Guild.

  You may be intimidated by this new challenge. It is true that my legacy will loom large behind you, but someday, if you work hard, you may manage to equal it. You may yearn for your old family. Because of the risk of this distraction, I’ve had them killed. Don’t lament their passing; I assure you that it was painless and quick.

  You must gather your strength for the challenges ahead. Do not look back and be paralyzed by melancholy—for this would be a fatal mistake. Your new role is not assured. I must be confident that you are ready for it. I will follow your studies closely. Do not disappoint me.

  Sincerely,

  Zaringer, your father.”

  “What an unfortunate lineage,” commented Merit from close behind Hemlock. He had apparently heard every word of the letter.

  “Yes, no wonder he acted as he did. Zaringer took everything from him, and re-made him in the image of evil. But he was a normal person, once.”

  She put the letter back into the trunk. “Could he have been a normal person again, Merit? Did I make a mistake leaving him in that desert to die alone?”

  “You did what you had to, Miss Hemlock, for yourself and for the City,” Merit replied, softly.

  “Then why does it feel like a mistake now?”

  Merit did not reply at first, but then spoke. “I don’t know. But I know your heart is kind and just.”

  “Sometimes, Merit, sometimes.”

  They stood silent for a few more moments. Hemlock gazed into the eyes of the adolescent Falignus, but they were cold and distant, and didn’t bring the memory of his former reality any closer to her reckoning. Finally, she placed the picture and the letter delicately back into the trunk. As she closed the trunk, she quickly slipped the lid back up, removed the picture and letter, and placed them into her cloak pocket.

  She noticed with relief that Merit had been looking at the adjacent bookshelf and had removed an old, dusty tome from a lower shelf. Suddenly the gears in his head began to spin wildly.

  “Miss Hemlock, look at this! This is a book I’ve only heard spoken of in legend. It’s the diary of Julius!”

  “Wait, Merit, calm down. Who is Julius, again?”

  “He was the founder of the wizard guild. He was the first to follow the chaos of the war that followed the death of the old Imperator. He lifted the City out of a dark age. This is his diary! Look how detailed it is! Miss Hemlock, this book must contain innumerable secrets about the City. Secrets that only the Seventh Circle knew. I know that Gwineval has never seen this book. We’ve spoken about it.”

  Hemlock found this discovery and Merit’s accompanying excitement to be an unwanted distraction from her thoughts about Falignus. But she knew better than to ignore Merit on matters of historical significance.

  And such knowledge might bring power with it. I don’t want any more wizardly intrigue while I am gone.

  She made a hasty decision, but it felt right to her.

  “Merit, I want you to take this book to your chamber and keep it secret. Even from Gwineval. I need you to understand what’s in that book, and I need you to tell me about it when I return. Once I understand what it says, I will decide when to share it with Gwineval and the rest of the wizards. Can you promise to do this for me?”

  Merit looked discomfited by her request, and began to shuffle around.

  “Merit, listen to me. If this knowledge were to get into the hands of someone like Jalis, think how much damage he could do with it while I’m gone. I trust Gwineval and Miara, but their honor might compel them to share this book with other wizards. I can’t risk that. I need you to promise me that you will read this in secret, and not share it with anyone. Please, Merit?”

  “I will honor your request, Miss Hemlock, although I don’t understand it. I don’t think Gwineval would shar
e the book until he had also read it first himself. But you are the leader of the wizard guild. I will honor your request by virtue of that power, but also because of our friendship. You must promise me, however, that you will not use this knowledge to harm Gwineval, who is also my friend.”

  “I promise, Merit. Thank you.”

  Hemlock leaned over and hugged Merit. She briefly inspected the book and then looked around the room. She finally located an old sack in the laboratory room. She placed the book into the sack and gave it back to Merit.

  “Now go straight to your room and put that book somewhere safe.”

  “Good night, Miss Hemlock,” said Merit, as he left the room.

  “Good night,” replied Hemlock, trusting her friend’s promise, but all the same, nervous about the potential power held in the pages of the book.

  She took the ornament and placed it in her robe. When the moonlight was removed, the secret alcove was again concealed by the marble. She moved the table back to the center of the room, and returned to her chamber, feeling that more than enough had been discovered in one eventful day.

  

  Merit greedily opened the pages of Julius’ diary. He could scarcely believe his fortune at being the first one to read the book outside of the Seventh Circle. He still felt uncomfortable keeping such a momentous discovery from Gwineval, but his curiosity overtook that feeling, and he began to read.

  The book started with an odd tale about a different life that Julius had had prior to first coming to the City.

  Chapter Three

  Feysal whipped his camosaur lightly to urge it forward. It was a slow but steady riding beast with a lightly furred body, long legs, and a gullet that could digest plants or meat and store water for long periods of time. He felt sure that his rival tribe, the Harith, would be camped on the vast desert plateau that lay beyond the ridgeline he was approaching. This plateau was known as Urimba, which meant "Harsh Mistress" in his tongue. It was a beautiful land filled with wondrous rock formations, yet water and game were scarce.

  He was so excited to ambush the Harith that he had urged his camosaur on some miles back, and, since she was the fastest camosaur amongst his riders, she had easily outdistanced them. He thought that it was just as well, for one man might be missed where many scores would be reckoned. Especially if that one man was cloaked in a magical darkness like Feysal was. He was the youngest in tribal memory to ever achieve the title of Charifa, or magic man; and he was the first Charifa to become an Emir of a great tribe.

  As he neared the crest of the ridge, Feysal slowed his camosaur. She responded willingly, grunting softly with approval, for the fast pace had not been easy on her.

  Slowly, the expanse of the plateau came into view. Feysal deemed it fortunate that Urimba was so inhospitable, for it meant that the Harith, who had set out to raze his camps, would be weakened by the hard journey across it. Crossing Urimba was an unexpected and bold line of attack, but one of Feysal's spies had reported the movement in time for Feysal to ride out with his fighters to meet the Harith threat.

  Between the earthy colors of the bordering, rocky mesas, which were resplendent even when muted by darkness—as they were now—and the backdrop of a mountain range whose passes led down to the gently down-sloping Urimba, Feysal could see an encampment which lay just a few miles distant.

  Oddly, though it was the hour for tea and bread (and perhaps camosaur meat, if hunger and scarcity dictated), there were no campfires lit. Instead, there were pillars of smoke rising, as if fires had recently been extinguished.

  Feysal's pulse, already rushing due to the nature of his solitary reconnaissance, began to pound in his temples. He drew his bow, scanned the plateau, and then turned his camosaur to scan his flanks.

  Nothing threatened him.

  Returning his attention to the camp, he noted that a great stillness lay across the plateau. Nothing was moving in the camp, and, stranger still, no birds or insects could be heard.

  Then Feysal's eyes perceived prone forms arrayed around the camp. More were scattered at its outskirts. Still more were visible at a distance of a hundred yards or more. Some of their poses might have implied a watchful posture, but many others were on their backs with limbs splayed to and fro awkwardly. He also noticed several tents loosed from their moorings, and the poles of others that had apparently fallen completely. No camosaurs could be seen, and an unnatural darkness seemed to surround the camp.

  Feysal felt sure that, if his eyes did not deceive him, he was beholding the ruin of the Harith.

  His mind told him to ride hard back to his approaching fighters. But something in his gut bid him to urge his camosaur forward. She had evidently taken notice of the oddity before them, because she was slow to respond and clearly reluctant; but she was the finest of her kind, and she obeyed when other camosaurs might have faltered.

  Slowly they approached the scene. Feysal perceived some camosaur remains to his right. Most of the torso had been torn away, leaving the head and legs like some discarded fancy.

  As he got a closer look at the bodies, he saw that many of them were also gruesomely dismembered.

  “What manner of beast could do this?” he wondered.

  As he was looking down, he noticed a huge shadow on the ground, approaching rapidly. He had no time to do anything but look up in wonder as a huge, winged beast landed heavily on the ground, not ten feet from him.

  He felt his camosaur trembling beneath him. Both camosaur and rider were paralyzed with fear. The creature was as big as the largest of his tribe’s tents and covered in black scales. Fetid breath, reeking of blood and gore, emanated from a huge jaw that was lined with large, sharp teeth that dripped with the remains of the Harith. The creature’s eyes were black as night, but in their center were pale crescent irises that shone like moons.

  “Hail Julius, son of the Imperator,” spoke a rumbling, bestial voice directly into his mind.

  Feysal strove to quell the panic that had brought his sensibilities to a temporary halt.

  “Who is Julius? And why does he use the ancient term for the Old God?” Feysal wondered.

  “Hail Julius, son of the Imperator,” repeated the beast.

  Finally Feysal found his voice. “Are you the Old God, come to take vengeance on the Harith?”

  “I am old, but no God. I have come to destroy you. I will then re-make you. Your father ordered it.”

  “You speak of my father? My father…” Here Feysal faltered as he considered that his father was unknown to him. He had been found in a sand dune bordering an encampment of his tribe, the Powitat. “I am Feysal, Emir of the Powitat, son of the desert!”

  “No! Feysal is now dead. It is time to begin your new life. You are Julius, son of the Imperator. It is he who left you in the desert. You will leave this land. We will return to the City. Your father has left something there.”

  Feysal felt beguiled by the grandeur of the beast, and the suggestion it was making that his origin was altogether more grandiose than he had thought it was.

  “I am the son of the Old God?”

  “Yes. You are the son of the Imperator.”

  A thrill of pride raced through Feysal. He had expected to rule his world, for he had known for years that his talents and skills exceeded all around him. But now this beast suggested that he might be…a God.

  “What if I believe you? What if I go with you, as you say?”

  “We will return to the City. It is not in this world. We will cross the great divide. Once there, you will accept your birthright.”

  “Will I ever return?”

  “Feysal is dead. Julius may return some day. You must decide now. Will you go?”

  Feysal looked back for a sign of his approaching fighters. None were visible along the ridge behind him.

  “What if I refuse?” he cried defiantly.

  “Feysal is dead.”

  Feysal paled a bit as he realized that he had no choice if he wished to live.

  “The
n I accept.”

  “Leave the camosaur and your belongings. Climb onto my back.”

  The beast lowered itself and positioned one of its great limbs in a posture that allowed Feysal to climb awkwardly onto its back. There was no clear way to get a good purchase for Feysal besides digging his fingers and his toes into the gaps beneath the black scales. This was uncomfortable for him, but it did seem to provide adequate grip.

  Feysal felt the beast’s muscles knot up beneath him. The force he felt in the beast in that moment astonished him, and extinguished the small doubt that Feysal still felt about the decision he had just made. Then the beast jumped into the air as its wings began to beat furiously, kicking up clouds of sand.

  The Dragon climbed with powerful strokes of its wings. Feysal struggled to remain mounted, although his camosaur riding skill aided him somewhat. As they gained altitude, Feysal stared in wonder at the expanse of terrain revealed below. He saw the mountains below him, and as the Dragon turned slowly, his fighters came into view, proceeding slowly toward the ridge leading to Urimba.

  Though transfixed by the view below, Feysal looked above him and gasped at what he saw. The stars, which had been distinct points of light in a sea of black, were taking on a different character. They were now connected by dim red strands which, when taken in sum, gave the sky the appearance of a great black rock punctuated with red striations.

  Still further they climbed, and the air grew colder. Feysal clung more closely to the warmth of the Dragon, finally noticing the oozing wounds on his hands and feet caused by the rough scales of the beast. The ground below now looked like a miniature, and seemed dream-like and surreal to Feysal. His head swam, and he focused more intently on the dull pain emanating from his hands to steady himself.

  Above, the red tendrils that connected the stars were now tongues of flowing fire, glowing a fierce crimson in the blank void. He saw that his own world was also connected to a fiery strand, which seemed like some slow-moving lava flow. How it did not consume his world eluded his reckoning.